


Child of Narcissus

by frenchxkiss



Category: SebastiAn (French Musician) RPF
Genre: M/M, Narcissism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchxkiss/pseuds/frenchxkiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.<br/>Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body. My body."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child of Narcissus

The sleeves are short and tight around your thin arms.

School boy image; slim and delicate.  
School is long gone, but you are still so very young;  
what with that baby face of yours and all.

A ring- stainless steel, its hard edges giving it a mechanical look- loosely hugs your ring finger. Whenever you flip someone off, it glistens under the sun  
and I hope that whoever you’re cursing is able to appreciate it too;  
the delicate frame of your wrist- small and weak. The nails that you try to keep trimmed but grow too fast and as a result are always a bit longer than you wish they’d be.  
The way your fingers fall into position, effortless, never forced. The way they never bend all the way in despite being perfectly capable of doing so (there is no need to, and this is a reflection of your confidence.). The classic Casio F-91W wristwatch decorating your wrist. Straight out of the 90’s– you are rebellion, teenage rebellion, virgin hair smooth and healthy, polo shirts with popped collars, black skinny jeans torn at the knees.  
You sleep somewhere between stupid punk and silent elegance.  
A bittersweet drink that burns the throat and wakes the senses.  
Somewhere between a drunken, buzzing, neon-lit Miami and a lonely tragedy in the deserts of California.

You are so very you, unapologetically ignorant to the world surrounding you and so very self-aware.  
You pick up on details that you say fill your soul- the way the buildings are touched by the sunset’s dying light, the patch of fog that settles on a faraway mountain you’ve never set foot on.  
You look at me with eyes that say you understand our exact coordinates in spacetime. That look that is synonymous with the moment a flying arrow begins tearing the flesh.  
Your eyes, melancholy, seducing. You speak, the words just barely escaping your throat; but I don’t hear them. The universe is silent. Your lips move.

“—- – — —-?”

I understand you are asking for some kind of information. I don’t know the answer to your words, but I know the answer to your eyes. The answer to many questions you ask, maybe the answer to anything you are able to ask me:  
My eyes threaten to shut, almost-closing unevenly, and I say, slowly, in an unlearned language, the sounds a string of milky saliva being pulled out by your tongue:

“———.”

Your name.

because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.  
Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body.  
My body.

Our body.

The soft-skinned, smooth, young vessel we share.

Darling boy. You are so beautiful and the world is so dirty.  
You will never tell them about me, of our time spent in front of the mirror.  
They wouldn’t understand- it isn’t about the contrast between our image and the stupidity of mankind, it’s about you.  
You, entire.  
It’s about the moment you raise your hand and the world bows before your image. It’s about the distorted voice in your poetry, the voice that is _yours._  
The face that is plastered over everything you create, the face that is **yours** \- made for yourself but offered for all to drink- gullible soup, sugary drug,  
secret poison- hidden under a screeching melody.

It’s about the cheering crowds that dance as you sing:  
“Destruction. War. _Chaos._ ”

It’s not as shallow as a vain “I am beautiful.”  
It is something deeper, more translucent, more intangible than any concept that lets itself be understood.  
It is a mob of unstoppable energy screaming at you in blind _joy_ when you give out your commands. It is in the voices that cheer:  
“Sebastian!  
Sebastian!  
Sebastian!”

Sebastian.

 

Schoolboy image, Casio wristwatch.  
Your name a page in the bible, moaned in ecstasy.  
How beautiful you are, how sweet in your lies, how childish

 

and how very aware of it all you are.


End file.
